the picture of a wild beast, goaded and aggravated in his confinement. A narcotic, administered by the hand of the jailer, produces quiet, and with the assistance of two prisoners is he raised to his feet, and supported into the corridor, to receive the benefit of fresh air. Here he remains some twenty minutes, stretched upon two benches, and eyed sharply by the vote-cribber, who paces in a circle round him, regarding him with a half suspicious leer, and twice or thrice pausing to fan his face with the drab felt hat he carries under his arm.

"A curious mother that sends you here for reform," muses the vote-cribber; but he must be a perfect flesh

hook on the feelings of the family."

The vote

"Send him up into Rogue's Hall," exclaims a deep, sonorous voice, that echoes along the aisle. cribber, having paused over Tom, as if to contemplate his degradation, turns inquiringly, to see from whence comes the voice. "It is me!" again the voice resounds. Two glaring eyes, staring anxiously through the small iron grating of a door leading to a close cell on the left of the corridor, betrays the speaker. "It's Tom Swiggs. I know him-he's got the hydrophobia; its common with him! Take him in tow, old Spunyarn, give him a good berth, and let him mellow at thirty cents a day," continues the voice.

The last sentence the speaker addressed to a man of comely figure and frank countenance, who has just made his appearance, dressed in the garb of a sailor. This man stoops over Tom, seems to recognize in him an old acquaintance, for his face warms with kindliness, and he straightway commences wiping the sun-scorched face of the inebriate with his handkerchief, and with his hand

smooths and parts, with an air of tenderness, his hair; and when he has done this, he spreads the handkerchief over the wretched man's face, touches the querulous votecribber on the arm, and with a significant wink beckons him away, saying, "Come away, now, he has luffed into the wind. A sleep will do him good."

CHAPTER II.

MADAME FLAMINGO-HER DISTINGUISHED PATRONS, AND HER VERY RESPECTABLE HOUSE.

REGARD us forbearingly, generous and urbane reader; follow us undaunted whither we go, nor charge us with tracing crime in a bad cause. We will leave the old prison, the dejected inebriate, the more curious group that surround him, and the tale of the destroyer it develops, and escort you in our walk to the mansion of Madame Flamingo, who is well known in Charleston, and commonly called the Mother of Sin. It is a massive brick pile, situate in one of the public thoroughfares, four stories high, with bold Doric windows, set off with brown fluted freestone, and revealing faded red curtains, overlain with mysterious lace, and from between the folds of which, at certain hours of the day, languid and more mysterious eyes may be seen peering cautiously. Madame Flamingo says (the city fathers all know it) she has a scrupulous regard to taste, and develops it in the construction of her front door, which is of black walnut, fluted and carved in curious designs. In style it resembles somewhat the doors of those fashionable churches that imitate so closely the Italian, make good, paying property of fascinating pews, and adopt the more luxurious way of getting to heaven (prayer-book of gold in hand) reclining on velvet and satin damask.

The mansion of Madame Flamingo differs only in sumptuousness of furniture from twenty others of similar character, dotted here and there about the little city. Add to these the innumerable smaller haunts of vice that line the more obscure streets-that, rampart-like, file along the hundred and one "back lanes" that surround the scattered town, and, reader, you may form some estimation of the ratio of vice and wretchedness in this population of thirty thousand, of which the enslaved form one-third.

Having escorted you to the door, generous reader, we will forget the common-place jargon of the world, and affect a little ceremony, for Madame Flamingo is delicately exact in matters of etiquette. Touch gently the bell; you will find it there, a small bronze knob, in the fluting of the frame, and scarce perceptible to the uninitiated eye. If rudely you touch it, no notice will be taken; the broad, high front of her house will remain, like an ill-natured panorama of brick and freestone, closed till daylight. She admits nothing but gentlemen; and gentlemen know how to ring a bell. Well, you have touched it like one of delicate nerves, and like a bell with manners polished by Madame Flamingo herself, it answers as faintly as does the distant tinkle of an Arab's bell in the desert.

There! It was recognized as the ring of a genteel gentleman, and Madame Flamingo's heavy foot is heard advancing up the hall. Be a diplomatist now. Show a white glove, and a delicate hand, and a winning smile, and you have secured your passport to the satin and brocade of her mansion. A spring is heard to tick, a whisper of caution to some one within follows, and a block broad enough to admit your hat swings open, disclosing the voluptuous splendor of a great hall, the blaze of which

flashes upon your senses, and fills you instinctively with curious emotions. Simultaneously a broad, cheerful face, somewhat matronly in its aspect, and enlivened with an urbane smile, darkens the space. After a few moments' pause we see two sharp gray eyes peering curiously at us, and a soft but quick accenting voice inquires who we are. Ah! yes, the white glove has told who we are, for the massive doors swing open, and we find ourselves in a long, stately hall, resplendent of Persian carpets, lounges in tapestry, walls and ceiling frescoed in uncouth and brightcolored designs, and curiously wrought chandeliers, shedding over all a bewitching light. The splendor is more gaudy than regal; it strikes our fancy, but leaves our admiration unmoved. The door is suddenly closed, and the short, portly figure of Madame (she bows, saying her house is most select) stands before us, somewhat nervous, as if she were yet undecided about our position in society. She has seen some sixty summers, made her nefarious reputation in New York; there she keeps a joint establishment, which, she adds, has been kindly patronized by the members of several pumpkin-headed corporations. Indeed, her princely tabernacle there was owned by one of these individuals, but in deference to his reputation she had the lease of a third party. Of corporations in general has she the very highest opinion.

Madame Flamingo's round, dapper figure, is set off with a glossy, black satin, made high at the neck, about which a plain white collar is arranged, corresponding nicely with the dash of snowy lace down the stomacher, and an embroidered buff apron, under which she every few minutes thrusts her fat, jewelled fingers. chin fat and dimpled, her artificial hair light brown, and

Her face is pallid, her